Bad at love
by withered
Summary: For Uin. Ichigo makes it a habit to be the most powerful person in any room, and he usually succeeds. So long as Rukia isn't in it.


**For Uin,  
Your request for an arranged marriage fic took a turn I did not expect. I hope you like it anyway.  
**

_This fic contains implied violence, implied smut and dom/sub implications, if that's not your thing, it can be skipped entirely as the fic cuts right down the middle. _

_If you're super opposed, please find your exits to the left (back button) and right (the cross) of your screen._

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Bad at love

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Violence has always treated Ichigo well, violence is what he knows.

Violence, however, cannot run an empire, but Karin-Karin can.

So, it isn't a surprise when he gives up his spot in the family succession.

At least not to anyone who knows him.

Regardless, it's a decision that almost has the branches at an uproar until Ichigo personally cleaned up shop.

Anyone who had a problem with his sister's reign would answer to him, and he'd do all the talking. He was particularly fluent in the kind of language that would broker no argument otherwise.

Unfortunately, his decision to vacate his future post was not without its downsides. It made him eligible to barter – for the good of the family – deals that would strengthen their hold, their ties, their empire.

Karin herself hadn't been fond of the fate that would eventually befall him, but Isshin was insistent.

The Kuchikis are as traditional as they come, and that kind of alliance would be just the foundation they needed to secure them and theirs.

So that's how he found himself here: An arranged marriage with a woman he's never even met.

Though that isn't to say Ichigo _doesn't know her_.

He's seen the pictures – read the dossier – he knows her in the same sense that he knows all his targets.

As an enforcer in the family, he locked onto all the weaknesses that count: the fragile bones and the tiny frame of one, Kuchiki Rukia.

It would be easy to overpower her, it would be easy to set her down.

He's aware that physicality isn't everything; he's always been holistic about his shake-downs, whether it's taking aim at a psychological opening, or hitting below the metaphorical belt, Ichigo knows all the ways he could break anyone, and that includes her.

But that's not what he's supposed to do, that's not what he's here for.

In fact, with the way this contract is written out, Rukia will be his responsibility; under his protection, and his skin itches with the thought of it.

He hasn't protected anyone since his mother, and even then, he'd failed.

Yuzu's careful expression – her enthusiasm over what would typically be a happy occasion – slips through light brown eyes as she meets his gaze; concern pulling at her lips as they part.

She looks just like their mom.

With a jerk, he shakes his head. _No._

This isn't the same; if he fails Rukia, and in turn, fails the family, his heart certainly won't break over it.

(His skull, most certainly.)

This is a marriage of convenience, a deal made to secure a union, secure their family.

This is protection offered in exchange for protective given.

This is business.

With no expense spared for the bouquets that line the aisle and the pastel coloured material that hangs pregnant overhead in the arches of the modest chapel, the air of the ceremony is certainly sombre enough of a reminder of that fact.

(As are a mixed collection of their respective security details stationed around the room like ushers.)

Even in her wedding dress; a long train of silk, and a misty veil held up by a diamond tiara; the walk down the aisle is practically a death march. With Byakuya's unreadable expression, Ichigo is almost certain that the other man is seconds away from snatching his sister up and walking right back out the doors – deals and family business be damned.

He's tempted to spare the man the embarrassment, almost willing to heave the burden onto his own shoulders to forge an escape of his own.

Instead, Ichigo catches the subtle squeeze of hands the siblings exchange, a silent conversation that needs nothing – not even eye contact with the way her face is obscured by her shroud – before Byakuya pulls away.

Ichigo does not take his place.

Just as well.

Rukia steps up to stand beside him just as her brother concedes; her shoulders are set, eyes resolutely forward and chin notched in declaration: This is business. This is just something that has to be done.

Good, he thinks even as he suppresses the low-grade surge of adrenaline, to run, to fight, to cause a scene that _this is not what he wants, this is not what he signed up for. He doesn't know how to do this – he can't –_

Instead, what he reminds himself is that this is good; Rukia doesn't see this for anything more than what it is; she doesn't want this any more than he does; they were just the unlucky pawns in this little scheme – he, the only son of the head of the family, and her, the only sister of the other – they're in the same boat; they've both got the same hand to play.

This is good.

He lifts the veil when instructed, pauses before the _if anyone should oppose this union, _and agrees when directed; a sentiment she echoes that rings in finality with her, "I do."

For a moment, everything is still; breaths are held and heartbeats skip.

And then nothing: the world doesn't end; no one dies.

He exhales discretely through his nose.

_This is good._

The rings are exchanged – his mother's on her hand – her father's on his, again they repeat in kind, "With this, my oath be true."

Binding; eternal; forever and ever.

Marriage doesn't get anymore sacred than in the crime families; betrayal of any kind, a slight of any nature could destabilize the whole thing; any regular old deal would require too much faith and that's not something either family can afford. But this? Putting the heads of their respective families most prized, most precious, on the line – where one loss will destroy the other?

This is loyalty at it's purest. This is religion at its core.

_Blood of my blood; you are mine and I am yours, and we are theirs._

This arrangement – this marriage – is for keeps; for always. No going back. No throwing it away. This is an alliance that will not be broken.

This is it.

For an instant, as their eyes meet, Ichigo feels like their breaths catch at the same time, as it sinks into their bones, makes a home in their veins.

At once, they think; _this is it._

"You may now kiss the bride."

_This is just business._

The difference in their hands is sharp – hers are small and pale and smooth whereas his are callous ridden, tanned and almost too large for his wrists; she feels refined and he feels oafish in comparison, but that's not what makes his breath catch. No. Because while she looks like glass personified, it isn't the type that threatens to break – it's the type that threatens to _cut_.

Her grip is unyielding, the translation in her blue eyes making it obvious without words; a fierce decree, a warning: _This is my show._

The itch in his skin turns to a burning fever, his eyes dilate, and she returns his look, the challenge clear.

_She knows._

He licks his lips.

Not good.

()

Like any cliché, Ichigo finds out quickly that he loves her.

Or that he could.

Or that he already does.

He isn't sure when he decides this, only that he can't remember when he didn't.

Ichigo makes it a habit to be the most powerful person in a room.

When she's not in it, that's exactly who he is.

It's not so much an issue about arrogance as it is about survival; if you know you're more powerful – mentally, physically or both, you will always have the upper hand no matter what situation. No one can manipulate you, or take advantage of you, or hurt you if you don't let them, ergo – be the most powerful one: have the more proactive approach, the strongest drive, the most durable will and the stubbornest desire; _and get what you want._

It's a mindset that has served him well under the infamous Shiba family, it's a mindset that will continue to serve him, especially in a situation as unideal as this:

Tied up, bloody and bruised, he's still unmoved; still the most powerful person in the room.

The men around him are growing frustrated, losing control; arguing amongst themselves. _Pathetic_, he spits with the blood in his mouth, even as the one in charge – Ichigo's already forgotten his name – continues to yell in his face, "You will say the words! You will talk!"

The red light on the camera stares at him, and Ichigo stares back at the pixilated version of himself in the screen flipped for his benefit: To show him what he's become, to show him that he's _weak._

Pathetic, he thinks again.

His one eye may be shut, and his shirt may be ruined, but he's not the one that needed ten men to jump him.

He's not the one that needs to demand obedience when fear alone would have had any one of these thugs singing if Ichigo had been on the other side instead.

Hell, he's not the one who needs to make a _ransom video _in order to be believed that the infamous Kurosaki Ichigo had bent to his will.

_Please, _he internally scoffs when the arguments escalate to him simply not willing to follow orders.

Ichigo snorts.

He has no problem following orders.

On the contrary, some would say he's entirely too willing.

Power taken is still power, but it's stained; tainted.

You only take when you cannot convince them to give when you're too incapable to make the situation enticing when you're too incompetent to bend them with anything else but brute force.

What can be stolen, can be returned, and no one behaves well when something of theirs is stolen, they'll know this first hand.

"Say it, say it!"

They're like children, he thinks flatly, restraining his eye roll.

"Say it!"

To the man's increasingly worrying red face, Ichigo replies, calm and even, "Fine."

There's a rustle of movement as someone adjusts the camera. It's almost too perfect.

Rukia will kill him after she kills them.

But she'll laugh.

And he does enjoy making her laugh.

"Look right here," he's instructed with a bark, and he blinks placidly back – looking a little too much to the left.

They snap their fingers. "Here, here, over here."

But he's not looking at them. He's looking at her.

She appears like an apparition, a ghost; snow white skin and eyes that glint like ice. Magnum mouth, she shoots to kill, "That's right, my love, just keep looking right here."

In that instant, it's like a star collapses; the gunfire sounds like an explosion of every atom in its orbit while the silver winks of the knives they wield are like stars going out. And Ichigo watches each one until it does, unmoving, unblinking.

Until she tells him otherwise.

The room is littered with bodies between one heartbeat and another, and for all the silent calm she entered with, her expression is like thunder, her teeth flash in a snarl that flints like lightning.

"You wanted them, I got them," he placates.

"Fool," she accuses before, behind her, a few of their men enter.

They check the adjoining doors, drag bodies – alive and otherwise – out before leaving, closing the doors in their wake; a practised manoeuvre, an automatic response.

Rukia has trained them well.

She stands in the way of the camera as she cradles his face, eyes roving over the cuts, the bruises, the blood.

He yields easily to her ministrations, cool hands against heated skin as she touch-touch-touches to assess the damage, to restate her claim.

She tsks at the marks they left, and he knows she's disappointed that she won't be able to leave her own until they heal. He is too. "I'm almost sorry I killed them," she says, soft and thoughtful as her touch trails to trace the ropes that bind him to the chair. "You look so pretty like this."

It's been only two hours since he'd allowed himself to be taken; two hours of getting his ass beat.

Two hours since he'd left their bed initially.

Two hours since she's touched him, looked at him like that.

"I should tie you up, maybe with your ties. You'd be so much more comfortable in the silk," she muses, her eyes darkening with promise, "_just the silk_."

He licks his lips.

People want to give up their power; they don't want to be in control.

Ichigo is no exception.

Rukia hums, and almost thoughtfully, almost playfully, she circles.

Her cool hands trail teasingly from one spot to another; the rigid line of his shoulders, what she can reach of the muscles of his back, the thickness of his thighs, before her touch goes feather light at the growing bulge between his legs; and on and on it goes until she threads her fingers through his hair, running blunt nails up and down his scalp.

His eyes close in the sudden haze of ecstasy that takes him, and she digs in a little dipper to get his attention.

"Keep your eyes open, my love, I want you to see."

The sting makes him hiss, and he shifts in his position as heat pools and pools, running rivers of fire down his chest to churn and fill in his abdomen, to swell at his dick.

From the corner of his eye, he sees her smile.

From his digital reflection, he can see why.

She's barely even touched him, barely done anything at all, and she already has him in pieces, ready to beg, ready to _give_.

Through the double doors, Ichigo can hear their men move about from over his own breathing. Clearing out the other rooms; tossing whoever they find hiding just beyond the foyer to be dealt with later.

Perhaps Ichigo will want them shot. Perhaps he'll do it himself.

He was the one privileged with their hospitality, after all.

When it comes to that, it's his call.

When it comes to this, it's hers. It's always hers.

"What do you think, my love," she begins, soft and low, her fingers trailing down his chest until they've reached their destination, cupping him through his trousers, thumbing through the material. "Was your plan good enough for a reward?"

He swallows, wants to say yes, but doesn't say anything at all.

She hadn't been fond of it, he knows. Though she's never fond of him putting himself in the line of fire. But better him than her.

There's only so much of her blood he's willing to see spilt, and it's exactly zero.

He, on the other hand, can admit to a taste for it.

Ichigo knows violence as intimately as he knows the dips and curves of her body, and he likes to think he's got the latter memorized with every beautiful note, every delicious shiver he can pull from her to mark every spot.

Sinking his teeth into the swell of his lip, ignoring the way it stings, he waits for her to decide, waits for her to tell him he was good.

She doesn't disappoint, she never does.

Rukia is never shy with her praise, never one to waste a drop of her devotion as she weaves poetry into his ears while her hands burn through his clothes, through his skin.

She coaxes his obedience until she has it firmly between her delicate fingers, and then she's _pulling it from him._

Relentless, unapologetic, she demands and he obeys, willingly sinking into a different kind of destruction as he falls apart and collapses to the melody of her voice as she croons, "You're mine, you're mine, you're mine."

"I am," he says in kind, breathless with it, meaning instead_ my oath be true._

And Rukia smiles sweetly against his lips because she knows.

She always did.

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**This fic is also on ao3 under the same name and penname. If you aren't already, follow me on tumblr at **everything-withered


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